


and this is the wonder (keeping the stars apart)

by spacenarwhal



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Families of Choice, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 22:03:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7775332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim falls asleep—real sleep, the kind he’ll come back from within hours and not days, not weeks—between one word and the next. His breathing slows, his eyes close, his mouth goes slack and hangs slightly open. Leonard studies his face and feels his heart go heavy with unbridled feeling (a fierce protective longing that snuck up on his all those years ago, his fondness for Jim fermenting into something richer, something wild and unbreakable that will probably carry Leonard to his grave one day). He smooths Jim’s unruly hair with a light sweep of his fingers, pulls a chair closer to the side of the bed without any attempt at a pretext and takes his seat. It isn’t a vigil anymore, not now that Jim’s truly come back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and this is the wonder (keeping the stars apart)

**Author's Note:**

> It took me seventy-three years but I finally wrote a 'Jim coming back from the dead under Bones' watchful eye fic'. It is a hundred percent not the story I set out to write.

After they take Jim off life support McCoy makes it his responsibility to keep him tidy. Jim’s going to wake up, that’s a sure thing now. There’s brain activity registering on the machines and Jim’s breathing on his own now, his lungs expanding and contracting inside his chest without any machines to help him. His heart’s beating, leaves a trail Leonard can follow on a PADD to account for every hour of the day. Jim’s skin is clean from being put through a sonic for decontamination, but his hair’s a rat’s nest, his jaw shadowed with stubble like it hasn’t been since a shuttle out of Iowa years ago. 

“Surely nurses could see to this if you wished to rest.” Spock says, and Leonard’s known him long enough—seen enough of him—to know that for all the stilted neutrality of his words, there’s kindness in his voice, genuine concern for Leonard and Jim both. 

“Do I look like I need rest?” Leonard retorts without any real heat, mechanic razor in one hand, carefully tilting Jim’s chin to get at the underside of his jaw. 

“I believe your question was rhetorical in nature but I would still answer in the affirmative. Doctor Amparo informed me that it has been almost three days since you last left the hospital.”

Leonard makes a dismissive noise that isn’t quite a growl. Traitors the whole lot of them. “I’ll take a break later Spock. Now, you gonna stand there and chat my ear off or you gonna help?” It’s a cheap play maybe, but McCoy’s not above playing dirty if it’ll keep Spock from pecking at him like an unwelcomed mother hen. Predictably, Spock steps forward, hands careful as they hold Jim’s head steady while Leonard shaves the scruffy nape of his neck. Kid’s not even twenty-seven yet. Leonard used to make fun of him when they roomed together at the Academy, tell him he’d teach him how to shave just as soon as Jim was old enough to grow hair on his face.

Afterward McCoy makes sure to use some of the facial balm Jim prefers. It smells clean and fresh and nothing like the hospital room they’re in, he smooths into Jim’s freshly shaven face with diligent swipes of his thumbs along the sharp angle of Jim’s jaw and up over his cheeks. When he looks up he finds Spock’s quizzical brown eyes staring at him, studying him in a manner that is both typically Vulcan and yet utterly human. “His mind is untroubled.” Spock says, and McCoy doesn’t know what to say to that, pulls his hands away from Jim’s face with more reluctance than he likes to admit to. “He is…it is peaceful for the time being.” It is such a deliberate choice of words yet it takes Leonard a minute to place what’s taking place. 

“You trying to comfort me Spock?”

A faint green tinge rises in Spock’s pale face. He blinks. “I—I believe I am.”

McCoy snorts, wipes his hands clean on a towel before getting to work on Jim’s hair. “Don’t get ahead of yourself Spock.” 

-

“You’d likely be more comfortable in a proper bed, no?” Scotty says as the door slides shut behind him. McCoy jumps in his chair. He’s not technically on duty right now, Amparo relieved him hours ago, though she couldn’t actually kick him out. The combined benefits of still being Jim’s emergency contact and visiting hours. 

McCoy hadn’t meant to drop off, had just taken a seat and pulled out his own personal PADD to read an article on physical therapies for patients recovering from long term muscle degeneration. (There’s no knowing what kind of shape Jim will be in when he finally comes to full and truly, but Leonard hasn’t gotten this far by not having all his bases covered.) 

He feels like he’s barely slept at all despite his PADD screen telling him he’s been out for nearly four hours. His eyes feel gritty and his tongue too big for his mouth. He squints at Scotty for a minute longer than he means to, tries to pull together enough intelligence to say something that might be understood as Standard. “W’hu t’at?” He doesn’t exactly manage.

Scotty shrugs, motions with one hand as he steps further into the room. “A bed, you know, bigger, actually designed for sleep rather than that chair you’ve got there. Probably feel a good deal more refreshed if you spent some time in one of them for a change. Or do you need a second opinion, being a medical man and such.”

It takes a second or two for McCoy’s sleep deprived mind to make sense of what Scott’s saying. “Chair’ll do me just fine.” McCoy mumbles sleepily, yawns so wide he swears his jaw clicks. Jim’s still out, not that McCoy really expected any different. Winona Kirk is off world and won’t arrive for another week at the soonest, and Spock has been in a constant cycle of debriefings and review boards as Starfleet scrambles to figure out what the hell happened out there and how deep Marcus’ betrayal runs inside the ranks. (He knows Carol’s been tied up in questionings nearly non-stop, had to wave off her apologies when she reached out to him to express her regrets for not coming to the hospital since Jim was moved out of the ICU.) Jim’s sleeping and Jim’s gonna remain sleeping until his body decides it’s well and truly ready to join them out in the land of the living, and McCoy can’t even begrudge him that because all he asked of Jim and God and the universe at large when he pressed the hypo to Jim’s neck was that he live. He should have known he’d need to be more specific, that Jim would find some other way to be insufferable—

“Coffee?” Scotty offers and Leonard hadn’t realized he’d even been holding anything but there is indeed a cup in his right hand that he holds out to Leonard on the approach. Scotty gives him a grin, small and somber in comparison to his usual demeanor, his eyes on McCoy’s face are too knowing, read something in Leonard’s expression that he’d have liked to have kept hidden. He takes the cup of coffee. 

It’s still hot, sweet with sugar and milk and nothing at all like McCoy usually takes it but it isn’t the replicated swill Leonard’s become accustomed to drinking after months in space. Scott takes the only other chair in the room, leans forward with his elbows braced against his thighs. They sit in silence for a spell, McCoy drinking his coffee and Scott studying the floor, just the two of them keeping Jim company.

The caffeine revives him better than the sleep did, leaves McCoy feeling slightly closer to human. Sharing the space with Scott is different from sharing it with Spock, the silence less stoic, an undercurrent of tension neither of them really knows how to address head on. There hasn’t been time, between Jim showing up in a body bag in his medbay and the _Enterprise_ falling out of sky, then working night and day to find a way to bring Jim back. Scotty’s come before, with Nyota and Chekov and Sulu, always one of many and never alone. Scott looks up every now and again, makes an offhand comment here and there (it’s raining out apparently, Leonard glances at the windows with their shades drawn down, imagines the wet, grey day outside). 

“Are you gonna say it or should I?” Scott says finally, forces Leonard’s eyes to relocate from Jim’s passive face. He presses his lips together, hems in an exhausted sigh. 

“Nothing to say, is there Scotty?” He drawls, cup clutched between two palms. He’s thought about it, about the hell he’d give Scotty given half the chance, for not telling McCoy what was taking place, for not calling him down when it became clear Jim wasn’t going to make it, for not stopping Jim from throwing away his goddamn life in the first place.

But he’s known Jim too long to hold a grudge against Scotty that’s got no right to exist. He’d be just as well off resenting Spock for being there for Jim in those final moments. McCoy’s been there for countless beings drawing their last breaths, knows better than to envy another for having to take on the responsibility. What matters, he’s realized since Jim’s heart resumed beating, since his skin grew warm beneath the pads of his fingers, is that Jim wasn’t alone. 

“Leonard—”

“Really, Scotty.” McCoy says, grinds the words between his teeth to make them more palatable. “Jim’s alive. It—it actually worked. It’s enough to make a man think he can cure a rainy day.” He nods down at the coffee cup in his hands. “Jim’s alive.” He can’t quite believe it himself. 

“Aye,” Scotty answers, voice thick. Leonard doesn’t look at him, “I s’pose there’s that.”

McCoy finishes his coffee, tosses his empty cup away. His back twinges when he stands and there’s an ache in his shoulders from sleeping hunched over himself. He digs the heel of his palm into his eyes. “Mind staying a minute Mr. Scott?” McCoy asks, hands thrust into the pockets of the jacket he threw on over his medical whites. “I think I’m gonna check out the mess. Can I get you anything, in return for the coffee?”

Scotty rubs at his face, eyes red. He shakes his head. “Take your time, Doc.”

Leonard nods his thanks, takes one more look at Jim sleeping in his bed before he heads out the door. The chances of Jim waking in the time it takes McCoy to go downstairs and return are slim. Spock could probably break the numbers down for him. But however small McCoy doesn’t want to risk it, doesn’t want Jim to be alone if he does wake. 

He thinks Montgomery Scott of all people understands that. 

-

There’s no avoiding the inevitable. Eventually it’s his turn to answer a summons, to stand in front of a review board and answer a hundred questions that all circle back to: “What the fuck happened?” 

He can’t undo what he’s done and he can’t pretend he regrets it either, but he won’t be the man who gives others the power over life and death. Especially not now in the wake of the Marcus’ secrets coming to light. Who can say what other skeletons Starfleet has hiding in its closet. 

He’s surprised to learn that the ships logs are apparently patchwork, that the dozens of first-hand accounts are all muddled about the extent to which Captain James T. Kirk was injured in his attempts to save the ship and her crew. (Treason, says a voice in Leonard’s head, but there’s another voice too, one that sounds an awful lot like Jim telling him they have to take care their own.) 

Most of the higher ups are apparently willing to overlook the lack of proper paperwork due to the extenuating circumstances, but there are a few among the admiralty who look on with apparent skepticism when McCoy gives vague answers about the exact procedures he undertook to save Jim’s life. McCoy took an oath when he became a doctor, and he’s broken that oath to keep Jim. That’ll be McCoy’s sin to live with for the rest of his days, what’s one more after all the others. 

When they finally cut him loose it’s nearly nightfall and there’s not a question in his mind about where he’s heading. His feet carry him back to the hospital, steps easy and unrushed (he knows if there had been any changes in Jim’s condition he would have been informed but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to see for himself). After hours indoors answering questions he likes the change of scenery. 

The hospital lights are glaringly bright after the softness of approaching dusk outside, but his eyes adjust quickly as he makes his way towards Jim’s room. When he enters he’s greeted by the sight of Spock and Nyota sitting in the two matching chairs that are standard issue in private rooms. Scotty’s there too, discussing the projected timeline for the ship’s repairs. Nearly a year before she’ll be sky worthy again, but that should be more than enough time for Jim’s PT to take place, for physicals and tests and whatever illusion of certainty McCoy can secure for himself. Nyota smiles when she sees him, rises from her chair and pulls him into a quick but fierce hug that Leonard allows himself to melt into for a moment. She tells him that he’s just missed Sulu, points to the new addition to the room, a squat, bulbous green-blue plant in an earthen pot. “He says they thrive under benign neglect. It should be thoroughly Kirk-proof.” It’s good to hear others talk about Jim waking as though it’s a certainty and not a possibility. 

McCoy’s mouth twists into the approximation of a smile. “Oh I’m sure Jim will rise to the challenge.” 

Nyota laughs.

They take care of their own. 

-

The first time Jim opens his eyes—really and truly opens his eyes and stares at Leonard for six long seconds with something like recognition in his eyes before they flick shut again—it takes everything in McCoy’s being not to burst into tears on the spot. It’s like the prickling snarled ball of anxiety and dread he’s been carrying for nearly a week now loosens just enough to let through a trickle of everything else he’s been trying to ignore since he laid Jim’s body in a cyro-tube. He makes it through a thorough review of all Jim’s vitals, makes a few notes in his chart, makes sure to document that the patient (James Tiberus Kirk, Jim, Jimmy on a few choice occasions when McCoy helps himself to more bourbon and affection than is probably wise for either of them) was conscious for almost ten seconds, displaying signs of positive cognitive activities which corresponded with the readings they’ve been getting to date. But no machine will ever reassure Leonard as much as the blue flash of Jim’s eyes fixing on him, focusing on his face as though trying to imprint the image of McCoy in his memory before slipping back into unconsciousness. 

Once that’s done he sets the PADD back down at the foot of Jim’s bed, touches one steady hand to the ridge of Jim’s shin through the thin hospital issued bedding. He listens to the whirring, beeping, humming symphony of machines monitoring Jim’s resurrection, keeping tabs on his slow return to life (to McCoy, and to Spock and to Uhura and Scotty and all the rest of the crew that comms for updates and sends McCoy hot meals when he’d just as easily forget to breathe never mind eating, overcome with the single purpose of making sure Jim is alright). 

“Jim.” Leonard says like he couldn’t when he caught Jim looking, too startled to say anything at all, fingers frozen on the PADD in his hand. He’d stared, half-expecting Jim to grin, for him to roll his eyes fondly and call him Bones. Because looking at him there wasn’t a doubt in Leonard’s mind that Jim knew who he was. “Jim.” But Jim is quiet again, slipped back into the nether space that exists inside the human brain, something a human being like McCoy can never hope to unlock. Leonard does cry then, palm pressed against his eyes like that’ll keep everything together, like that’ll block out the sound of the machines all around him, singing their ode to Jim’s ongoing life.

-

They all come and go, and when it’s all said and done it is just Jim and McCoy again. Jim falls asleep—real sleep, the kind he’ll come back from within hours and not days, not weeks—between one word and the next. His breathing slows, his eyes close, his mouth goes slack and hangs slightly open. Leonard studies his face and feels his heart go heavy with unbridled feeling (a fierce protective longing that snuck up on his all those years ago, his fondness for Jim fermenting into something richer, something wild and unbreakable that will probably carry Leonard to his grave one day). He smooths Jim’s unruly hair with a light sweep of his fingers, pulls a chair closer to the side of the bed without any attempt at a pretext and takes his seat. It isn’t a vigil anymore, not now that Jim’s truly come back. 

He sits and he takes a hold of Jim’s warm hand atop the blankets, holds it and listens to his heartbeat coming through strong on the monitor. He orders the light down, lets the sound carry him to sleep.

He wakes to dimness, a hand heavy atop his head, the blanket soft beneath his cheek where it rests on the bed. His neck hates him for the angle at which he’s slept, but Jim’s fingers card through the short hair at the back of his head carefully, almost wistful in their movement. “Bones.” Jim whispers, but there’s no way Jim knows he’s awake now. McCoy’s eyelids are too heavy to lift anyhow, so he keeps them closed, revels in the rhythmic back and forth of Jim’s fingers. “I was scared Bones.” Jim says and Leonard forces his eyes open then, blinks up at the dimly lit underside of Jim’s chin, catches the bob of his adam’s apple in his throat when Jim swallows. “I didn’t think I would be. Not after everything.” 

“We’re all scared Jimmy.” He says, voice raw, “Every second of every day, every last one of us. We’re running around terrified.”

”Bones.” Jim swallows again. His jaw tightens. His fingers go still in McCoy’s hair. “I told Scotty not to—I couldn’t call you away from your station. Not when I knew there were others—people you could actually save who needed your help. I needed you there—with them.”

Leonard’s eyes burn, his throat tight. He nods under Jim’s hand. “I know Jim. I know that.” 

“Thought you’d hate me for it.” _Like I hated him._ Doesn’t need to be said for Leonard to hear it.

Leonard blinks hard. “I did. But I always knew what I was in for the day I decided to go and hitch my wagon to a pain in the ass like you.”

Jim’s snort gets torn apart on the way out. It’s a brutal sound in the relative quiet of the hospital room. His fingers flex against McCoy’s scalp. 

“You _saved_ me—you all saved me. Saved our ship.” Jim’s hand drops away, curls into a fist on his stomach, leaves Leonard free to sit up again. Jim’s eyes shine in the weak light, his mouth trembles. 

McCoy reaches out, covers Jim’s tightly clenched fist with his own shaking hand. “Well you didn’t exactly leave us much choice did you?”

Jim blinks, startled, and then his whole face contorts, his laughter choked and ugly and half-mad, but for whatever reason Leonard laughs too, relief coursing through his bloodstream like good bourbon. It warms his belly and goes straight to his head. 

-

He goes on (mostly enforced) leave which really just means he spends the rest of his time in Jim’s room in his civvies, lets his stubble go unshaved and drinks a touch more than he probably should on the nights he bothers to relocate all the way to the small, sparsely furnished apartment Jim and him share in the city. 

One day he turns up to the hospital and finds Jim hobbling down the hallway with the assistance of a walker, Scotty at his elbow. “Who set you loose?” Leonard asks in place of a greeting. His attempt at a scowl is completely ruined by the grin that takes a firm hold of his face when he sees how far Jim’s come after only a few weeks of physical therapy. 

“Bones!” Jim calls out, apparently delighted by the sight of him even if its own been hours since they were last in each other’s company. “Mr. Scott is helping me orchestrate my great escape. Quick you can drive the getaway car.”

“Sure Jim, right this way.” McCoy rolls his eyes, falling into step besides them. They plod a slow and careful trail through the hospital, pass the nurses’ station and back around, do the whole circuit a second time until Jim’s sweating and obviously in need of a break. “Damn it.” Jim curses when they get him back to his room, legs shaking and palms red from the force he’s been placing on them to keep himself steady on the walker. McCoy checks his vitals because he’s a doctor, damn it, uniform or no. Jim huffs with evident annoyance, “I’m fine—just—itching to run when I can’t even walk right now.”

“Well think of this the next time you’re about to run head first into something foolhardy and stupid.” McCoy snaps with more heat than he originally intended, surprises even himself with the force behind the words. Behind Jim’s shoulder Scotty shifts uncomfortably. 

“Wasn’t stupid to save the lives of my crew.” Jim spits right back. And _that_ , that right there is why they’ll never be able to have this argument, not the way Leonard needs to. Not with him screaming recriminations at Jim and Jim without a leg to stand on. Because Jim’s right, damn it, Jim will always be right in choosing the lives of every single person under his command over his own. And Leonard can hate him for it, will probably hate him for it at least a little bit for the rest of his life, but he’ll never love Jim any less for it either. 

“How long you plannin’ on playing that card?” Leonard growls, yanking his hand back and watching Jim shuffle himself onto his biobed without assistance (not because they wouldn’t happily offer it but because Jim’s stubborner than a mule and wouldn’t accept it kindly if they did). 

Jim rolls his eyes, a touch of that insufferable humor creeping back into his voice when he says, “For as long as I can, thank you very much.”

“Infant.” Leonard sighs, wrapping his fingers around Jim’s wrist for the purpose of checking his pulse. If he keeps them there longer than strictly necessary, well that’s just to make sure. 

-

“C’mere.” Jim says, face shining with sweat from his last physical therapy session, grey Academy-issued sweats still hanging a little looser on him than before from the weight he’s lost during his extended hospital stay. Jim refuses to eat the nutrient bars the doctors recommended, and McCoy’s not going to be the man who forces him to do so and dredges up memories of things best left in the past. He makes a joke about Jim’s need to do things the old fashion way, stocks their refrigerator with Jim’s favorites and makes a mental outline of meals to order in or prepare that’ll help Jim put the weight back on in a healthy timeframe.   
McCoy’s been wandering the hospital for the last hour and half while Jim wrapped up his PT, came back to find Jim searching for him. “Hey.” He says, quickening his steps just a little, meeting Jim a little more than halfway. Jim’s grin is proud and his eyes are bright, his face still flushed from his session. “Doctor Amparo says I’ll be good to go home soon.” Jim says, though he must know that Leonard knows already.

“Gee and I was just getting used to the sound of silence.” McCoy jokes without any heart and Jim’s grin widens, reaches out with one hand to latch into the front of Leonard’s jacket and pull him closer. 

“C’mon Bones,” Jim says, and then his mouth is touching Leonard’s, lips chapped and warm against his. It’s softer than any kiss Jim’s ever given him before. It makes everything in Leonard’s body right down to his toes shiver. 

“Hey.” Jim says when he pulls back, steady on his feet. “You know you missed me.” Leonard rolls his eyes, heaves a heavy sigh and throws his arm over Jim’s shoulders in order to pull him against his side as he leads them back to the room that soon won’t be Jim’s anymore. 

“You’ll never prove it, kid.” McCoy says against Jim’s temple, pressing one more kiss there before they turn the corner. 

-

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a poem by e.e. cummings.


End file.
